


Candle Flame Hands

by OnTheSubject_of_the_Infinite



Category: B.A.P, K-pop
Genre: Do I even have to tag for cursing on here?, Forgive Me, Gen, Jae might be a lil OOC here, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Uneasy Allies, but he IS bleeding to death so, cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-20 00:16:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20666165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnTheSubject_of_the_Infinite/pseuds/OnTheSubject_of_the_Infinite
Summary: Inspired by the whole "hero turns up on villain's door, half-dead, and is all 'help me,' then collapses, leaving the villain to make a choice" thing, but less campy. Hopefully.Starring:Detective Yoo Youngjae as Whump No.1ANDCriminal/Sniper Choi Junhong as Sharp Dressed Man (TM)





	Candle Flame Hands

Youngjae ripped his necklace-badge off ten minutes ago when it was clearly warding more help off than it was attracting. He’d barely mustered the willpower to wriggle out of his now-ruined, force-supplied jacket, choking on a scream the entire time until it flamed in his throat like the cigarette burn on the back of his hand. Walking was a feat all its own at this point.

Now Detective Yoo stumbled through the rain-drenched streets, shivering, shirt soaked through with more than water. Searching half-blind for the familiar apartment building, he prayed the person he needed would be home. Being a cop in this neighborhood was bad, but being a  _ wounded  _ cop was practically asking to be taken out. So, yes, he was more than a little desperate. Even if the chance was slim, he had to hope there was some humanity left bouncing around the city's king pin's chest.

The building loomed ahead, both a relief and a stinging reminder. Youngjae didn’t  _ belong  _ here. The sensation crawled over his skin, prickling under the sharp patter of rain drops. Eyes seemed to peer from every front stoop, every alley and curtained window. Praying they couldn’t read his profession on him too easily, Jae leaned against the brick facade beside the call buttons and punched floor seven.

“Hello?”

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Who’s this?” the voice claiming to be Zeke Choice prompted, half bored.

Shaking hard now, hand hardly able to stay over the hole in his abdomen, Jae said, “This is Detective Yoo Youngjae. I’ve been shot,” figuring it would be too obvious if he lied. “Please, Junhong, let me in.” He clutched the wall, shot through with a wave of lightheadedness. “Truce for tonight, Choi, I swear. I can’t brea--” Jae swallowed hard, forehead pressed to the building’s exterior. “I'll die if you leave me out here.  _ Please _ .”

A man across the street threw down his cigarette and started another, ready to investigate. The rain pounded down, admonishing. 

After a long hesitation, the buzzer on the front door sounded. 

Youngjae rushed inside, dripping pinkish all over the pretty faux marble floor, and fell (literally) into the elevator. 

Choi Junhong’s gold-plated doors opened to a half-conscious, bedraggled cop, bleeding from seemingly  _ everything, _ and bruised to that sweet place that sent a message of  _ we could’ve and will do worse if this happens again. _ He blinked down at the man who’d been dogging his steps for the better part of the last year, objectively impressed with Detective Yoo’s fortitude.

“This isn't how we usually meet.”

“My cuffs are… Still on my… belt,” Youngjae managed, smile weak. “Gun’s back in the-- car.”

“You didn’t drive here,” Junhong said, finishing his drink and setting the glass on one of the end tables flanking the elevator. “And I’ve done nothing you can prove. Today.”

Youngjae’s brow rippled with worry and pain, too dizzy with blood loss to actively try for witty conversation. He lifted his hand, showing the real reason he was making a mess of the career criminal’s front stoop. His swimming vision lifted to the paler man’s, pleading.

Junhong stepped into the elevator, too tall. (And frankly terrifying. When did they start making twenty-two year olds this buff?) Even if he was younger, Youngjae had no doubt the limber man had more blood on his hands in that moment than the detective ever would his entire life. Choi loomed with the kind of presence that lingered around indignant old souls and chaotic children who became adults far too soon.

Hands in the pockets of his sharply tailored suit pants, Junhong tilted his head, sizing up the bullet wound with the eye of a man who’d had and given plenty. “Can you walk to the kitchen? It’s closer than the guest bathroom.”

Clenching his jaw on what would be wasted breath, Youngjae shook his head, already seeing stars. He really hoped puking wasn't a side effect of gun shot wounds.

Blinking once, the taller man bent down and scooped up his surprise guest with ease. Youngjae was sure, in the far off-land he was now floating in, that it looked very swoon-worthy from an outsider’s perspective, what with the iridescent navy suit and Choi’s street-fight strength. All he could really focus on, sadly, was how much it fucking  _ hurt.  _ The man's fingers were pressed right over a knife wound, and being bunched up --even slightly-- was murder on the gushing hole in Youngjae's stomach.

“I could let you bleed out,” Junhong muttered absently, already retrieving a bag of blood from his freezer, pre-prepared with an injection needle and tube because  _ of course.  _ He splashed medical-grade alcohol on a cotton pad, nose scrunched just a touch.  “I could let Up-ah-hyung sleep through the night, not bother to call for help at all. It would save me a lot of trouble later on, having you out of the way.”

“You won’t,” Youngjae said (with all the confidence of a dying man begging the mercy of his greatest rival who he’d nearly landed in prison three times). He gripped the stool he’d been deposited on, trying not to keel over sideways. (Up-ah must’ve been Moon Jongup, the gang’s known personal medic. Youngjae really hoped the tiny man wasn’t an angry waker.)

Junhong tapped the brunet’s arm to get a vein. “No,” he agreed mildly, still perfectly collected. "Not yet."

He snipped the rest of Youngjae’s button-up off, bottomless black gaze tracing each mark slowly. (Detective Yoo was  _ his  _ pain-in-the-ass cop _ , _ after all. No one else got to riddle him with holes and grazes and cuts, and la-dee-dah away, not without repercussions of some sort. There was an  _ order  _ to his empire, and things would  _ stay that way. _ Choi wasn’t afraid to put his old rabbit mask back on to keep things running smoothly.) 

"You're a piece of work," Junhong hummed, plucking his phone out of his back pocket and tapping #3 on speed dial to wake his best friend.

Youngjae exhaled shakily, relief like morphine. He wouldn’t die tonight. By some miracle, this mass murderer, famed for his heart of apathetic steel and dead-shot aim, was going to save him. (How fucked up was  _ that? _ ) 

Breath shallowing, Jae slumped against the bar. "Thank you."

Junhong glanced at him sharply, guarded, and turned half away to finish his call, arms folded. “Hyung? I need you at the Greek safe house. Bring blood and bandages.” He shot a fleeting look over his shoulder at Youngjae, measuring. The man on the other end said something, and Junhong looked again, slower. His brow pinched.

“I’ll try. And hyung?” 

Youngjae met his gaze, half-delirious with pain. Choi pursed his lips, then nodded once.

“No one hears about this.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Ahhh, don't we just love implications? Subtext is the best. **Whump tropes** are the best.


End file.
